


His Weirdest Job

by SnowTiefling



Series: Abrams [1]
Category: Shadowrun
Genre: Hunting People, Other, drunk socialites, side deals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 15:16:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20602934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowTiefling/pseuds/SnowTiefling
Summary: Abrams gets hired for what is possibly his weirdest job yet. Originally a writing prompt from my old SR5 tabletop game.





	His Weirdest Job

“You want me to do what?” Abrams asked, his eyes narrowing. Across from him the Johnson sighed and spread his hands. “I know its an unusual request, but you have a reputation for reliability and discretion. And my client demands authenticity. I can’t hire any troll off the street desperate for nuyen. She needs a real life ‘runner. One that won’t say anything. Ever.”

Abrams nodded and looked over the job briefing again in his AR. “I will expect you to supply the gel rounds, of course. And the” Abrams let out a labored sigh “special uniform.” The Johnson nodded and reached across. “They will be provided at the residence. I’ve already uploaded your measurements and your preferred weaponry, just show up looking as dangerous as you can. She expects ‘Dangerous Shadowrunner’ not ‘Troll Handyman’.”

“Understood, Mr. Johnson.” Abrams said, shaking the humans much smaller hand gently.

And so it was that a few hours later Abrams’ beat up truck was allowed to pull into one of the nicest neighborhoods in the city, past the security drones, past the staring eyes of private security. The credentials the Johnson had provided all held up. He was billed as private entertainment for his employer, someone with enough money and power to get him in and out of this neighborhood without anyone blinking. The gate to the mansion opened up before him, and he saw the green of what he assumed was actual grass. Real trees. He parked around back, put on his ballistics mask, and stepped out of the truck, his boots crunching in the gravel of the drive. He looked exactly like the wrong type of person to be at this house.

Nearly 9 foot tall of scarred troll, his ram like horns inlaid with platinum, his ballistics mask covering his rugged features. The armored jacket with its thick ceramic plates guarding his vital organs, the bracers and leg guards keeping his extremities safe. His assault rifle slung across his chest. He looked like he was going to war.

He knocked on the mansions back door. A slightly drunk blond girl opened it. She looked up at him and let out a loud shout "Girls! The entertainment is here!” The way she said entertainment made Abrams shudder inwardly, even as she motioned him inside and to a large room with several sofas and couches that each looked like they cost more than most people’s entire house of furniture might. The girls, it seemed, were all well on their way to a good time. Bottles of expensive and unpronounceable liqueurs lay about, half drained or getting there. Most of them eyed him with hungry expressions, eyes wide, lips parted. They were, at best, interchangeable socialites. Only one didn’t really seem to care, she sat staring at her feet.

“This” The hostess drawled, her voice slightly slurred “is what I promised you all! A real life shadowrunner!” The girls all clapped and hooted, except for the 1 who only glanced at him and bit her bottom lip, embarrassed. He noted her glass was almost full, she was not as embarrassingly inebriated as the others. The hostess turned and looked at him. “You are a shadowrunner, right?”

He nodded, turning his head slowly to look down at her through his ballistics mask. She threw up her arms in triumph. “YES!"

"Oh my god Becky, I can’t believe you got a real shadowrunner, this is just too whiz.” Abrams rolled his eyes behind his mask, glad that they couldn’t see his face. “Has he ever killed anyone?”

“I don’t know Claire, let's ask him.” The hostess, pirouetted in front of him, stepping back and eyeing him up and down. “Tell us your name first though, troll. And then how many people you’ve killed.”

“You can call me Abrams, and I do not know how many people I’ve killed.” He growled, putting as much bass and threat into his voice as he could. There was a visible shiver in the group of young women. One blurted out. “How long do you think it would take to kill us?”

He looked at her, the blank ballistics mask making her shrink back into the cushions. The room grew quiet. “Are any of you mages? Adepts? Combat operatives?” They all shook their head. Abrams moved, inhumanly fast, acting as if he were drawing a pistol. He pointed at the hostess. “Bang, dead.” She fell back, terrified in her alcohol addled state, collapsing into 2 of her friends behind her. He then continued the motion, across the room, going to each girl in turn, his finger pointing at the wall flower last. She squeaked. “Dead. All of you. In seconds.”

There was a nervous titter that became a laugh that became cheers. “Yes yes yes! I told you I would only get the best for our fun!” The hostess almost lept from her awkward position between her friends. “Now Mr. Abrams, you were told what you have to do for us tonight, yes? You understand your ‘run’?” She purred looking up at him. He nodded. “Good! Good good good! Put this on then, and we’ll get started.” One of the other girls threw him a parcel of clothing and he looked around the room.

“Here?” He asked. She nodded and most of the girls seemed to perk up. He took a deep breath, and then proceeded to undress. The mask came off first, and he cracked his neck side to side, showing off the long scar around his throat. Then his armored jacket and undershirt, the scars on his chest and arms pink and ragged, his dermal plates chipped and worn under his skin. One of the girls whistled, and he leveled his gaze at her, making her wilt back into the sofa. The wallflower shot nervous glances at him.

He picked up the clothing pile and began to pull out his uniform for the night, but the hostess stopped him. “No no no, it all comes off first.” Her eyes were hungry, and he understood the way she looked at him. Not as a person, but as a large amusing toy. He cracked his knuckles and stood tall, looking her in the eye. “I might make your guests uncomfortable should I remove everything.” He whispered. “Or scare them.” There was a reverberating Ooooooooo sound from her friends, and one started the chant of “take it off!”

Soon, all but the wallflower had taken up the chant. And so he did, boots first then socks, then pants, then everything. He stood there, glaring at them all, naked, daring any of them to meet his eyes. Some looked away, others like the hostess, had eyes that seemed to enjoy roaming. The wallflower only looked at her full glass, stealing short glances his direction, she at least had the courtesy to blush when she did look at him.

“Can I dress now?” He asked, looking at the hostess.

“Oh, if you must. We have to start the game sooner or later.” Her eyes took one last hard look at him and she sighed, waving her hands. “Go on.”

Abrams dressed quickly, his uniform was a mockery of neo-barbarian chic. Faux fur boots, loincloth, a harness across his chest with fake claws and bones, a set of human skulls. He ejected the magazine from his assault rifle and picked up the 4 loaded with gel ammunition, verifying before taking them that they were, in fact, near harmless gel rounds.

“The game tonight ladies is Last Girl Standing! First one of us to last 3 rounds as the last one hunted down by our Mr. Abrams wins the purse!” They all clapped excitedly. “The only rule is you cannot leave the hedge maze once the hunt is on, and you must wear your protective goggles and chest plates at all times, Mr. Abrams doesn’t want to hurt us, do you sir?”

“No.” He said flatly, the faux fur making unpleasant places on his large troll frame itch. He put his glasses on so he could see augmented reality, and he noted a digital scoreboard and that bets had been made. The wallflower, Armelia, had been chosen as least likely to win. The hostess, Clementine, the most likely, with the other girls in the middle. He frowned, the cogs in his brain slowly resolving a way to make this work to his advantage. The hostess ushered him from the room so the girls could change, and a few minutes later Abrams found himself at the entrance to an elaborate maze of real, actual, plants. The girls had all changed into armored tracksuits, and Abrams AR lit up with pictures of the girls, so they would all know who had been hit and who was left running. The drunken giggling grated at his ears. “Ok girls! We know what to do, on your mark, get set…” And with that, Clementine ran into the maze, the other girls short on her heels. Armelia was last, moving without heart or urgency. The time counted down in his overlay, and he cracked his neck. When it hit 0 he closed his eyes and listened, the earbuds in his ears picking up sounds too quiet for unaugmented hearing to hear.

He moved into the maze, slowly, methodically. Up ahead he could hear giggling, drunken shrieks as the girls ran into each other. And shuffling, rejected, footsteps. He reached out and snagged Armelia from behind as she rounded the corner, one hand over her mouth, his arm pressing her close. “Shhh, be quiet, I’m not going to hurt you. Just talk. Understand?” She nodded. “Good. Now listen, you have 5 to 1 odds against you to last, this is what I’m thinking. I take you out first now, those odds go up. Put a grand on yourself. I make sure you win the match, at the end you collect your money from those drunk slots, I get a cut. Deal?” She nodded in his arms vigorously and he set her down. “Good.” And then he shot her in the stomach, the pinkish gel staining her armored suit.

“WOOO Armelia is down first!” He heard from somewhere in the maze. “You’re next Janet!” Clementines shrill voice called out, and Abrams grimaced.

“Why?” Armelia asked, as Abrams went to move away.

He smiled “You’re the only one of these slots with any decency, that’s why. Now keep quiet, and next match make sure you keep talking the whole time you’re in the maze so I can hear you.” He whispered, and moved off.

An hour or so later, Clementine and Armelia were tied to win the game. Clementine was furious, stalking back and forth drunkenly yelling at the sky. “No, no no no! This was my game, he’s my troll, I should be winning.” She stopped, swaying woozily. “I know, new game, none of you others are close to us, so new game. Yes, tie breaker.” She wobbled over to a box near the maze and pulled out 2 small odd pistols. Each had a large hopper of paint balls, and she handed one to Armelia and sneered. “New game, we hunt Mr. Abrams, first to shoot him wins!"

Armelia blinked and took the pistol from Clementine. "What, I don’t…” She stopped and looked around, the other girls were snickering and whispering. She frowned. “Fine. You’re on, little side bet Clementine, if I win, you have to come to my house and be my maid for a week.”

Clementine just laughed. “You heard her girls, she thinks she can beat me, little Armelia. You’re on, and if you lose, you’re my bitch for a month.” Armelia nodded, shooting a sideways glance at Abrams. He nodded slightly and then turned towards the maze.  
“Go run Mr. Abrams, run and hide so I can come shoot you in the loincloth!” Clementine shrieked at him, burping and taking another pull from her bottle of clear booze.

And he did, Abrams had learned a lot from chasing the girls over the last hour, although he was sure that Clementine’s knowledge of the maze gave her an edge. But she didn’t know that he had a deal with Armelia. He moved quickly, leaving an obvious trail for them to follow, and then he used a stone bench to vault over part of the maze. Let them follow that into a dead end, and the he slowed down. Taking slow steps, he began to listen. Armelia was talking to herself, quietly. “Where are you Abrams?” She kept whispering. Clementine however was easier to hear, loud steps, shouting for him to reveal himself.

Both were closing in on him, searching through the maze, but Clementine was closer. He moved towards Armelia’s voice trying not to give himself away. But then Clementine rounded the corner, and had him in a dead end. “I got you Mr. Troll!” Abrams shook his head as the gun wobbled in her hand. POP! It went off, and Abrams moved out of the way of the slow moving projectile. “You’re not supposed to dodge! Stand still!”

Between her poor aim, and his quick reflexes, 3 more shots went off without any of them connecting. “Hold still you fragging trog!” Instead he rolled to the side, avoiding another slow moving projectile. Armelia came up just behind Clementine, and lowered her gun.

She shot her gracious and very drunk hostess in the ass with her gun, making the other girl shriek and jump. Armelia didn’t hesitate at all, and fired as fast as she could at Abrams. He pretended to dodge, as if he was trying to be fair. The bright orange of Armelia’s rounds blossomed on his chest, contrasting with the ugly purples that had splattered the hedge behind him.

“NO!” Clementine shouted, staring at Abrams and then at Armelia. “No, you can’t have won! No no no no.” The spoiled brat broke down into a drunken tantrum, throwing her gun randomly over the wall of the hedge maze and sobbing into the dirt.

Armelia looked down at the sobbing dilettante “Fairs fair Clementine. See you at my house Saturday. I’ll have a nice maid outfit for you to wear.” She straightened and turned, walking stiffly out of the maze. Abrams moved to follow her, pulling his leg out of the grasping claws of the disgraced socialite now covered in sticks and dirt.

“I was supposed to win. Why didn’t you let me win? You were my toy.” She wailed.

“No. I was your entertainment. The job was to come here and wear this and play hunter and prey. You didn’t stipulate in the contract that you had to win. I played. You lost.” He stepped back and shook his head. “Maybe being someones maid for a week will help you learn that people aren’t toys.” And he walked away leaving her there in the maze, drunk and crying and dreading her own fate. The other girls were around Armelia giving a show of congratulating her. Fake, like everything else in their lives. But her smile as he nodded his head towards him was real.

He changed into his regular outfit, shoving his armor and weapons into his duffle bag. He decided to keep the ridiculous outfit. Never know when something like that might come in handy.

A few days later he was sipping soy-kaf outside of a mid-grade restaurant. Flavored krill and protein paste shaped to look like a porkchop resting on his plate. Across from him a nervous Armelia sat, squinting at her own food as if not recognizing it. “This is what you eat?” She asked quietly.

“No. This is rich people food for where I’m from.” He said, the gulf of experience between their worlds clear by the look on her face as she grimaced around a bite of nutrimeal. She slipped a small credstick across the table to him.  
“Your cut. And a bonus, a small data packet. I thought you’d like to see how good of a maid Clementine turned out to be.” She held one hand up to her face to hide her smile and nervous laugh.

Abrams opened the video and image files in his A.R. and almost choked on his meal. “How many more days do you have her for?” He asked. Armelia held up 4 fingers and grinned.

“Tomorrow she gets introduced to the toilet brush.” They shared a laugh.

“Send me those trids too, if you can. Then burn my number.” His voice was soft but firm. “Forget me.”

“But…” Armelia began, but then trailed off. She stood, nodding. “Of course. Just a job for you, right?” Her voice shook slightly. He nodded. She bit her lip and sighed. “What if I need a 'runner for something?"

He shook his head. "I hope you never do.”


End file.
